Envoi to Taken at the Flood
by The Wild Wild Whovian
Summary: A brief fixfic, because the ending of Taken at the Flood annoyed me. Oh, not Poirot's resolution of the case! No, it was Lynn Marchmont's choice of husband, especially her reasons for her choice. I suppose back in the day that would have been considered romantic, but nowadays… Well, I simply think she was being stupid. One-shot, complete.


Hercule Poirot broke his fast in his usual fastidious manner, then turned his attention to the morning mail. After slitting open the various envelopes, perusing the contents, then making brief notes for the disposition of each one, he set the mail aside in three neat stacks, and at last took up the newspaper.

Ah, but there was little of interest this morning! A speech by the Prime Minister, the presidential campaigns in America, unrest in the Middle East. No, nothing new there. He browsed the interior pages and was about to fold the paper up as neatly as it had been before he had unfurled it when _— eh bien!_ — a small article caught his eye. There in the listings of births, deaths, and marriages — there he saw it: the nuptials of Miss Lynn Marchmont with Mr Rowley Cloade. Ah! He folded the page to more easily read, and read he did.

And remembered.

So Lynn Marchmont had made up her mind! Poirot remembered the case of the Cloade family vividly. The extended Cloade family — brothers and sister, niece and nephew — had been brought to poverty by the sudden marriage and almost instant demise of the only moneyed member of the family. Having died without drawing up a new will, the rich Mr Cloade had by default left all his wealth to his bewildered young bride. Yet this on its own would not have affected his poorer relations, for the young woman was, it seemed, of a sympathetic and generous nature. No, it was her brother who was the cause of all the trouble, for he was determined that his sister give not so much as a farthing to her many in-laws!

Among whom were Lynn Marchmont and Rowley Cloade, cousins, long betrothed one to the other. When the late war had broken out, Lynn had offered her abilities to a grateful nation by joining the Wrens. Rowley, for his part, had tried to enlist, but had been informed that he, as a farmer, would be of greater service by continuing to tend his farm as usual. And so she had gone off to war while he had remained at home.

After war's end, Lynn had returned to the old homestead at Warmsley Vale only to find herself completely at loose ends. Life at home after the dangers of war had seemed dull, deathly dull, and the prospect of marrying Rowley and becoming a farmer's wife even more depressingly dull! Was it any wonder, then, that she had become fascinated with her aunt-in-law's dashingly dangerous brother?

Enter M Poirot. Oh, not as marriage counselor, to be sure! No, the situation at Warmsley Vale had led to death. Curiously, Poirot had been called upon to look into the matter even before that first death, but it was when Rowley Cloade had presented himself imploring the famous detective's help that Poirot had taken an active interest. Before long two more deaths had followed.

And in the midst of all that, Lynn Marchmont had decided to abandon the safe life of marriage with Rowley for an adventurous one wedded to the family enemy! Off she had gone to Long Willows, Rowley's farm, to inform him she was breaking their engagement.

And Poirot, as it happened, had come to Long Willows as well, knocked on the front door, then stepped inside and walked into the kitchen just in time to interrupt Rowley in the act of throttling Lynn!

The irate young farmer's words which Poirot had overheard as he had hurried along the passage into the kitchen came back to him vividly now: "If you're not for me, then no one shall have you!" and "I've killed two people!"

" _Tscha_ , killed two people indeed!" murmured Poirot, looking not at the newspaper but at the past. For he had known of a certainty even then that Rowley had committed no murder. The one death had been an accident — manslaughter at most — and the other a suicide, no matter how keenly the young man might have felt himself at fault. But murder? Actual murder?

Even the sight of Rowley with his hands around Lynn's fair throat had not impressed Poirot as being a case of near-murder. A lover's spat, nothing more. Rowley had recovered himself and no harm had been done.

And Lynn? Yes, Lynn evidently had found the romantic danger she longed for. Life as a farmer's wife would no longer be the dull existence she dreaded. Now that Rowley had done his time in prison for the manslaughter, with her waiting eagerly for him — now they were married. Poirot sighed at the romance of it all, folded up the paper, and wished them well.

…

Three months later, Poirot sat down at his breakfast table. He ate neatly, daintily, then passed on to the matters of correspondence, after which he took up the newspaper.

The headlines fairly screamed at him:

 _MURDER AT WARMSLEY VALE!_  
 _Farmer's Bride Found Strangled_  
 _Husband Arrested_

For a moment Poirot sat there stunned, almost unable to comprehend. Recovering himself, he read further and found that, yes, to his sorrow, the names of victim and accused were in fact Lynn and Rowley Cloade. He let the paper fall to the table as he immersed himself once more in the past, remembering once more the farmer's furious words.

With a shake of his head, Poirot murmured to himself, "Perhaps Mademoiselle Lynn was in error to desire danger above safety. But then," he added ruefully, "perhaps I too was wrong. First in dismissing Rowley as being incapable of committing murder…"

He sighed. "And second in misidentifying danger as romance. _Tscha!"_ The famous detective bowed his head.

 **FIN**


End file.
